


Bloom

by lifeinthemacro



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: (sort of), Angst, M/M, Sex, There is no happy ending I'm afraid, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinthemacro/pseuds/lifeinthemacro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Horatio doesn't really know how he got here."<br/>Short piece looking into the ins and outs of Horatio and Hamlet's complicated relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloom

Horatio doesn't really know how he got here.

 

It's late, and one element is keeping away the dark. Candles brighten the other side of the room, small and warm and dripping, and a fire smoulders lowly in the grate, burning away the clean, fresh Danish winter air. Burning away the cold. The room is stuffy and warm, and the faint smell of smoke clings to the sheets and his hair and fingertips: it reminds him of every winter before this. Ones as a child and as an adolescent, sat reading with Hamlet, or gambling with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Ros somehow always beat him at coin tosses.

The room is ornate, embroidered with sickly-looking flowers in claustrophobic shades of pink and red - there's carmine and burgundy and cerise and scarlet. The finest scarlet dyes come from Venice, he remembers vaguely. Horatio was never lower-class, never had to suffer the straw mattresses he heard tales of, but Hamlet's quarters are ostentatious and lewdly, laboriously, immorally extravagant. The featherbed and fine linen sheets under Horatio's knees and hands make this more comfortable but, somehow, they make him feel even more degenerate.

Hamlet has his fist in Horatio's hair, the nails of his other hand carving red lines into his thigh.

He can't remember when they started doing this. Somehow it always feels both shatteringly familiar and dangerously strange. Is this the first time or the fiftieth? As children they would sit with their books and Hamlet would rest his tousled, busy head in Horatio's lap, and read aloud his favourite passages. Horatio barely heard what he said, he just listened to the timbre of his young voice. When did this become their new norm?

There's hot breath against his ear, and the obscene sound of skin against skin. Hamlet places a kiss at the nape of his neck, and tugs harder on Horatio's soft hair.

And this is Hamlet all over. He's as likely to kiss Horatio as he is to slap him, he's hot and cold, constantly, Horatio is never quite sure what to expect of him. It terrifies him.

There are efflorescing bruises blooming on his delicate skin, bright and florid. Some of them ache. Hamlet never stops himself from hurting Horatio if he wants to, he never has to suffer the consequences. He doesn't have to peel his clothes away from skinned knees and sit carefully so as not to injure himself further. But Horatio will always let him, he'll never complain, because he's desperate. All he wants is the prince's attention, he doesn't care what form it comes in.

Hamlet is breathing words in his ear, eyes closed blissfully. "Beautiful," he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer, "Lord, so beautiful."

And that's all it takes for Horatio to glow. He lowers his head a little, presses back into Hamlet, smiles privately. Bites his tongue but still groans. This suddenly feels better, that made this all worth it. When tomorrow he has to hide bite marks and wince with his steps, he'll think of those few, meaningful words, and he will feel dizzy with happiness. He won't mind his tired, aching thighs, or that he can't sit still because there are scratches on his lower back. Horatio won't be able to regret his discomfort.

"Hamlet," he starts, meaning to return a similar sentiment. He has no idea what he plans on saying, and he doesn't get to finish. A hand goes over his mouth and he's shushed, and Horatio is confused but he doesn't complain, doesn't try to fight for his voice back. Instead he closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of having somebody inside him. This is intimacy, he tells himself, this is the closest he can come to a person. It's an odd notion - nowhere to go from here but down.

He can tell from experience that Hamlet is close to finishing. The change from silence to small pants, the slight shake in his arms. Horatio goes to touch himself between his legs but Hamlet grabs his wrist immediately, pins it behind his back. Horatio gasps with the throb, no longer muffled by Hamlet's palm, but the prince doesn't seem to notice. Always so self involved.

When Hamlet comes it's with a groan. A name leaves his lips, dripping and sweet like honey, and Horatio's stomach drops.

"Ophelia," Hamlet said, and Horatio could hear the smile, the belief, in his voice. Now he feels sick and shaky, and as Hamlet clambers off him and goes to find his clothes. Horatio sits, crestfallen, on the edge of the plush bed. He should say something. Stop this. But he can't. Hes devoted to Hamlet as one is a God. It would feel blasphemous to upset him.

Now, he remembers, he recognises this. He's heard that before, he's heard Ophelia's name said with that desire and desperation more times than he cares to count. Horatio feels wretched as he stands, feet on the cold floor, and begins to dress. Hamlet, now clothed, doesn't look at him. Horatio supposes he must feel something like shame, but maybe he's just projecting.

"You should go."

Horatio silently disagrees, but he nods and tightens the laces on his boots.

"Yes, my lord," he says quietly, and he approaches the heavy wooden door. He half expects Hamlet to say something as he rests his hand on the metal handle, but there's nothing. No apology or explanation, nothing that might absolve Hamlet of his guilt or Horatio of his grief. And he doesn't feel as though it's his place to say anything. He's been entrusted with a secret.

The door shuts behind him with a dull, dissatisfying thud, but Horatio's humiliation roars in his ears, uncomfortable and loud. Back in his own quarters, he examines himself, scrutinises his own body, and the flowers forming on his skin in red and pink and purple are unnervingly similar to those embroidered on the fittings in the prince's room.

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I thought that a lot of the Hamlet/Horatio stuff here was weirdly fluffy and didn't really fit in with the feel of the play, so I decided to explore my own headcanon of Hamlet basically using Horatio as a kind of surrogate for his feelings about Ophelia. I always felt that Horatio is devoted to Hamlet and will let himself be degraded if it means getting Hamlet's attention, which is more often than not directed towards somebody else. I said this wasn't happy.  
> This is the first bit of fanfiction I've written since I was about 14. Please be kind.


End file.
